


infinite

by honeynoir (bracelets)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Remember Me - a Clara Oswald Fanworkathon, whouffle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:38:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bracelets/pseuds/honeynoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s always the Doctor, and always Clara Oswald.</p>
            </blockquote>





	infinite

**Author's Note:**

> For the [Clara fanworkathon](http://clara-who.livejournal.com/20313.html) and the prompt: _Eleven/Clara, written in the stars._
> 
> Note: brief mentions of death.

There’s always the Doctor, and always Clara Oswald.

Fingers entwined to the point of pain, they try to reconstruct her through the fragments in her mind, the hole she’s left across the constellations. They make all those short jumps the TARDIS hates, from place to place and time to time and climate to climate. They always watch, never interfere; that part of their story is done, off-limits.

Clara’s hand is alternately freezing cold and stickily sweaty in his, but he’s never letting her go.

 

Her echoes are hiding in the shadows when his selves arrive, or running behind him cupping her hands around her mouth while he stares straight ahead, or... they’re already dead. Two steps in front of him or two steps behind. Setting up the pieces or cleaning up after him. Always a hand hovering above his shoulder, too rarely one he gets to hold.

They find her footsteps in dust, her handprints in mud, variations on her name through all of time and all of space.

They find her slipping into the sea or falling off ledges, in grand tombs and unmarked graves.

They find her walking away from explosions, or scarred by shrapnel, or being Queen of the Universe.

They find the most enourmous statue of a grinning Clara wielding a sword and wearing chest armour and a flowery skirt.

 

She was too perfect, and still just a girl whose fingers trembled in his. She wanted to see, to find herself. “You...” he says, when they slump against the console, surely done for the day, “are amazing.”

Clara shrugs one shoulder. “Behind every man...”

He has to laugh at that.

 

Here’s the future, the one they can write together: the blue box and the leaf and Wednesday dinner at the Maitlands’, and Angie announcing: “It’s Clara and Clara’s boyfriend.”

They’re still holding hands.


End file.
